


batting a thousand

by brawlite



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Dubious Consent, HYDRA Trash Party, Happy Halloween?, M/M, Object Insertion, Oral Sex, Twink Brock Rumlow, brock is needy, definitely not ssc, hot power top jack rollins, i can't believe i wrote this much of this trash, jack calls himself "daddy" once and brock is having none of it, no discussion of boundaries limits or safewords, that's not how you use a baseball bat, this is absolutely disgusting i'm sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-31
Updated: 2015-10-31
Packaged: 2018-04-29 06:35:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5118764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brawlite/pseuds/brawlite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Brock shows up at Jack's house in the middle of the night. On Halloween. <i>"Trick or treat." </i></p>
            </blockquote>





	batting a thousand

**Author's Note:**

  * For [linguamortua](https://archiveofourown.org/users/linguamortua/gifts).



> happy halloween, y'all. is a sequel to lingua's [breaking and entering](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4537797). if you haven't read that yet, you totally should.
> 
> this was kind of rushed because i'm terrible at procrastinating. if you see any errors, please feel free to let me know!

It shouldn't be a surprise, hearing the doorbell chime through his house on Halloween, but it is. Not once in the five years that Jack's been living in this house has he ever had a single trick-or-treater at his door. And, now that he stops to think about it, he's never even seen one in the general vicinity of his neighborhood. A quick check of his watch tells him that it's, from what he remembers of his childhood, a little too late for most children to be wandering around dark roads with measly trick-or-treating opportunities. No reasonable parent would let their young'ins out to wander the backwood forests of Virginia alone, and no parent would ever take them out this far, patience worn sparsely thin by this time of night.

That doesn't, however, rule out teenagers who think they're punks, looking to prank a house for the street-cred. Even if pulling a prank on the one night it's socially acceptable kind of negates the whole process. 

 Jack sighs, running a hand through his hair. His front lights aren't on, but it's clear enough that someone's home: his kitchen and living room lights are on, his bike still in the driveway, warm to the touch. He doesn't want to deal with chasing a group of wanna-be punk teens off his lawn like an old fogey, but he also doesn't want to his house to be smelling like eggs for the next two weeks. And he definitely doesn't want to drag out the ladder to scrape toilet paper out of his gutters. That kind of thing has never happened at this house, but he distinctly remembers it from the neighborhood he grew up in. He hasn't heard anything yet, but if he can catch the kids while it's happening, he can make them clean it up themselves at the threat of physical violence -- and maybe a little show of it too, depending. 

The doorbell rings again.

He knows that when he opens the door, there's a ninety-five percent chance that his front step will be empty, and he'll catch the distinct sound of a heard of fleeing chucks fading into the distant brush. But, Jack has an image of stoic calmness to maintain -- he can't just fling open the door and jump into attack mode. So, with his knuckles nudging up against the slip joint knife in his pocket, just checking that it's there, he carefully unbolts and unlocks the door. He nudges it open, casually, entirely expecting to be greeted with an empty stoop and the telltale sight of fleeing Halloween pranksters. Instead, he gets something entirely unexpected. 

"Trick or treat." 

That kid from a couple weeks ago is leaning against his door frame, propped up looking like a pornstar in a meet-and-greet, grinning like the goddamn Cheshire cat. It takes him a second before he realizes himself, though, and his expression falls into something a bit more sultry, a bit more sexual. He's not the best at it, but in this case? It's really the thought that counts: the too-inexperienced look is a good one on him, and it's probably one of the many reasons that Jack is going directly to hell, do not pass go.

The momentary shock of seeing the kid again -- he wasn't sure if he ever would, even though he gave him the card -- settles, and he takes in the rest of the...situation. Brock's still leaning against the doorframe, giving Jack his best  _trick-or-treat_  face, while Jack gives him a once over. Of course the kid is dressed up, because why wouldn't he be? And boy, is it  _bad_.

There are so many things that Jack wants to ask him. He wants to know if Brock even came prepared for a trick, because he sincerely doubts it. But what comes out instead, is, "Have you ever even watched a baseball game, kid?" 

He asks because what Brock is wearing only resembles a baseball uniform if you  _squint_. Real hard. He looks much more like he stepped directly out of a low-budget homemade video -- _Baseball twink takes on whole team_. Jack takes his time, letting his eyes drift down Brock's body, from top to bottom. He doesn't feel too ashamed about the once-over, because he figures it's what he's meant to do, anyway. After all, Jack doesn't have any candy, and Brock isn't carrying a bag to collect. 

There's a red baseball cap starting off his whole look, tilted a little to the side of his face -- tipped forward just enough that he could pull off hiding his face in a blush, if he wanted to go for the blushing virgin look.

About the only thing authentic about his costume are the hat and the glove that he's carrying, tucked under his arm. Somehow, Brock got his hands on a pair of white spandex leggings with blue pinstripes that look an awful lot like baseball pants -- if you squint. Without squinting, they leave very little to the imagination, tight as sin and hugging him in all the right places. A threadbare blue and white raglan shirt hangs off his shoulders, looking not at all like it is doing anything about the cold breeze ripping through the trees.

And, to top the whole look off, the kid's sporting knee-pads over the spandex leggings. 

Like he's planning on spending a significant amount of time on his knees, tonight. Hell -- Jack can make that happen. He's willing to rearrange his thrilling plan of chasing kids off his lawn for that. 

Brock pops a bubble of the gum he's chewing (because of course he is), and just shrugs. At least he's got the image pretty spot on, even if he does look like he stepped directly out of low-budget fantasy. "I don't watch much sports."

It's not really surprising. Jack doesn't watch much either, at least not in his free time, anyway. When he's at the bar or relaxing in the staff lounge, he's perfectly content to watch and follow whatever game's on, even to cheer for a team, but it's typically not his favorite choice of activity to unwind. But it's not much of a stretch to know that Brock doesn't watch sports -- hell, he probably spends most of his time watching porn. It's probably where the idea for the outfit came from, anyway.

"Course you don't."

Brock has the audacity to look a little annoyed, shifting his weight on his hip, his bottom lip stuck out in a full on pout. "C'mon. I said  _trick or treat --_  which is it?"

It shouldn't be hard to forget just how much of a brat Brock is, but somehow it still comes as a little surprising. The good kind of surprising, though. Like getting a package of baked goods in the mail from his mother, or getting a glowing performance review with an unexpected bonus. It's definitely a treat for Jack, but that doesn't necessarily mean it's going to be a walk in the park for a Brock.

Jack hauls Brock into the house and closes his door behind the both of them in one fluid, decisive motion. With more than the necessary amount of force, he fists a hand in the soft fabric near the neck of Brock's shirt and shoves him against the door. Hard. Sure, he could say something, make a demand for either a trick or a treat from the kid, but the allure of kissing Brock is too tempting. And they have plenty of time for Jack to make demands and for Brock to brattily refuse. 

Jack knows why he's here. Knows just how much Brock wants it to show up at his door again. 

It's easy to keep kissing him and to hoist Brock up by his thighs and get them wrapping around Jack's waist for support. Hell, the kid practically jumps into his arms, arms around Jack's neck to help hold himself up. Jack licks into Brock's mouth while the kid runs a hand over Jack's hair, fingers half-tightening before he thinks better of it, not knowing the boundaries. Rollins can practically trace the train of thought: if he pulled Jack's hair right off the bat, what would happen? Would he lose all of this, be kicked to the curb before even starting? It's that little indecisive start of Brock's fingers that gets Jack laughing, moving his mouth to Brock's neck to suck dark kisses into his tan skin in between chuckles. 

"What?" The kid whines, wiggling a little in Jack's grip. His glutes move under Jack's hands, the spandex of his leggings leaving very little between Jack's fingertips and Brock's skin. " _What_?" He says again, when Jack just keeps laughing. Kid's too much of a stickler for praise for his own good.

It doesn't take a genius to see that Brock likes praise and doesn't like when he doesn't know where he stands. So, obviously, Jack doesn't give in.

"Are you  _my_  trick? Is that why you're dressed like you walked out of a goddamn porno?" To punctuate his point, he grabs Brock's hat and tosses it to the side, leaving the hair underneath all tousled, disheveled. It's a good look for him. "You're definitely no treat, anyway."

Except he is. Because this is Jack's life now, barely legal kids showing up on his doorstep, practically begging to be fucked within an inch of their lives. It  _is_  a treat, and it's a treat he's not about to unwrap somewhere where he can't properly enjoy it. So, he drops Brock, lets him fall clumsily to his feet and steady himself against Jack's shoulders with a vaguely annoyed noise. It's cute as hell -- even almost endearing. Jack reaches down, gets a good handful of Brock's junk, laughing a little, unsurprised to find him already hard when his hips jerk against Jack's hand. He cups him, letting his height intimidate as he towers over the other man, waiting until Brock shudders a little when his fingers tighten, to move the both of them away from the wall.

Because Jack's life has become a trashy film, he decides to give in and play along with the whole scenario, hoisting Brock over his shoulder in an easy fireman carry, keeping the kid secure by his legs. "You tried your best, sport, but sometimes your best just doesn't cut it. I'm real disappointed in you. Gonna have to teach you a lesson." He doesn't bother with any sort of cheap porno tone -- the words have his blood pumping a little warmer, regardless.  

To the kid's credit, he only barks out one laugh, and Jack doesn't hear an ounce of nervousness in it. Instead, he he follows up with a contrite, yet sultry, "Sorry,  _Coach._ " It sounds a little practiced -- and hell, it probably is, with Brock's whole getup and all. It's easy to imagine him standing in front of a mirror, rehearsing that word over and over again, until it no longer feels foreign on his tongue. 

It's cheap. It's overdone. And it's still hot as fuck.

Jack plunks the kid down on on his bed and takes a second to admire his catch.  

Brock's shirt has ridden up on his journey to the bedroom, exposing his lithe and hairless torso. The kid still has peach fuzz, for Christ's sake -- Jack's definitely got a one-way ticket to hell for this. He has muscle, though, tone and definition peaking through. It doesn't take much imagination to picture him a few years older, fleshing out his body real good. Maybe in a decade or so he could even give Jack a run for his money. Not now, though. Now, it's the easiest thing to push Brock down on the bed and flip him over, manhandle him all easy-like onto his stomach.

_Rookie virgin takes one for the team_ , he thinks, pulling Brock's leggings down just enough that his pert ass is exposed to the air of the room. He gives the olive skin of Brock's ass a slap or two, just get the blood rushing. The moan the slaps drag out of Brock is filthier than it has any right to be. The kid's hips buck against the comforter of the bed when Jack palms him, admiring the flushing flesh. "Damn, kid. You like that?" He grips Brock's ass with both hands, squeezing hard, just to remove his hands and watch the flesh fade from bloodless white to something nearing bright red -- it's beautiful. "You want to be punished?"

Sure, Jack's got himself talking just like he walked out of a smut film, but it doesn't even take the cake when Brock mumbles a fevered " _Need it,_ " into the comforter on Jack's bed, pushing his round little ass farther into the air. An invitation.

It's filthy and it's wrong with just how barely-legal Brock looks, but Jack's made worse decisions. And one look, one  _actual_  look, at Brock tells him just how much the kid does need it. They've barely even started and the other man is flushed and sweaty, eyes already a little glazed with desire. And Jack's barely even touched him. For a second, he wonders if Brock's done anything since he was last here -- let anyone else touch him -- touched himself, even. Despite the idiotic spark of jealousy that ignites as quick as a flare at the idea of Brock offering this up to anyone else, it doesn't seem like that's the case. He's too far gone, too needy to have even touched himself much at all.

He needs it, so Jack will give it to him. He's a humanitarian like that: selfless.

"Relax. I'll take care of you." This isn't normally his thing, but there's definitely something hot about the way he settles himself on the edge of the bed and hauls Brock over his lap. The kid moves too easily, just lets Jack settle him there before he twists and tries to catch Jack's lips in a kiss. Jack catches him, forces him back down with a click of his tongue and a shake of his head. "Don't be a brat." It's not that he doesn't want the kiss; he could lick into Brock's mouth for hours, tasting him and teasing him. It's that the whole point of this is control: taking it out of Brock's hands. He puts one hand on the back of Brock's neck and the other on the small of his back, forcing him down and still, bent over Jack's lap with his cheek resting on the bed, " _Steady_ ," he advises and Brock shudders. After a cursory try or two to test Jack's grip on him, Brock stills. Kid doesn't know how to be good even if he wanted to be. It seems like what he wants, though, is for someone to teach him how to be good.

Jack brings his hand down to connect with Brock's ass, hard enough to make the most delightful noise. It's followed by another delightful noise -- Brock groaning into the sheets, his hips bucking against Jack's thigh. It's perfect; he can feel just how hard Brock is, and knows that the only thing the kid can do about it is fruitlessly rut against Jack's leg. He tries not to think about just how hot it would be to make Brock get off like that one day, not even touch him, just let the kid rut and grind until he lost himself against Jack. But, he's got more pressing things to do tonight.

Right now, all he wants is to have his hands all over Brock, to work his skin red and sweaty and bruised. So, he gets to it, no warning given. He starts up a steady pace of spanking the flushing skin of Brock's ass, working up a nice rhythm. Brock starts, clearly not expecting something with no breaks in between. He wiggles, groans, whines as the slaps get harder, but Jack catches him. All he needs to do is put his palm down flush against Brock's spine, press and keep him there. It's deplorable, how easy it is. He could do anything to this kid and he'd be able to. Nothing could stop him.

"Please," Brock groans, whinging high in his throat as only can be expected of him.

Jack snorts, answering with a particularly hard slap that has Brock twitching upward and then filthily grinding his cock against Jack's thigh as the pain fades into pleasure. " _Oh god,"_ he groans, when Jack grips his ass hard, fingers dipping down into the cleft of his ass. It's a real beautiful sight to look down on, this nineteen year old, splayed across his lap like this. He's still mostly dressed, so Jack makes quick work of his shirt, ripping it from his body like tissue-paper. The leggings would be more work than just popping seams, so he leaves them. Besides -- he hasn't put the kneepads to use yet, and it would be a shame to waste them.

Jack doesn't have much of a plan, other than for Brock to come out of this debauched and ruined. It feels like a good enough direction to aim for when he runs his calloused palms over the red skin of Brock's ass, soothing the abused skin, admiring his handiwork. "Good boy," he ruffles Brock's hair before guiding him to his knees on the floor in between Jack's legs. He goes down easy, half because he's partially immobilized by the pants halfway down his legs, and half because he looks like he's already mentally gone. His eyes are glazed and when Jack nudges Brock to the side and pushes his thumb into his mouth, he just opens up and rests his head against Jack's thigh.

Despite how relaxed he seems, he concentrates his full attention on Jack's thumb, without even being prompted. Licking and sucking and biting, going all out. "You going to keep being good for me?" He asks, pressing down against Brock's tongue, slipping the digit backward until Brock starts and swallows to prevent himself from gagging. It's endearing, even when Brock does choke a little when Jack brushes his thumb over his back molars, a little spit dripping from his lips and onto the ground. "Yeah, you are." 

"C'mere." Jack removes his thumb and undoes his jeans, palming himself in the process. After all this, he's achingly hard. But this is a gift, a  _treat_ , and he doesn't want it over too fast. He drags Brock forward by his tousled hair and feeds his cock into the teen's mouth. It's easy to imagine Brock doing this for cash, with how good he is at it. He goes for Jack's dick with a passion that speaks volumes to how much he enjoys it, and well -- Jack's gotta give him credit for that. 

"Good boy," he coos, gently running his hands over Brock's hair. Spunk: the kid's got it. And dedication. Slowly, Jack urges him forward with two fingers underneath his chin and one hand on the back of his head.  

Brock, even though he's good and he's trying hard, gets spooked by the prospect of what Jack's nudging him toward. He might know what he's doing around a dick, but he's not practiced in the art of deep-throating, that's for sure. But he's a good kid and Jack believes him. "You're fine, kiddo, you got this." He pets him again, brushes some hair out of Brock's eyes and nudges him forward again after he pulled back. He's not going to give Brock the option to back out of this, even if he whines and grabs, panicked, at Jack's legs.

"Easy does it." 

Easy he goes, and eventually he can feel the head of his cock easing down Brock's throat. It's blissful. He watches, enraptured, as Brock gets used to it. His eyes started out squinted shut, and now they're slowly opening, to look up at Jack. Gently, Jack rocks Brock's head in his lap, slowly fucking his throat. Eventually they find a rhythm.

He loses himself in it for a little while before something about Brock's movement catches. His fingers tighten on Jack's legs again, fingernails digging in, and when Jack looks back down at him, Brock's barely even paying attention to what he's doing. His jaw is tight, and his eyes are over Jack's hip, staring at the corner of his room.  At the wall? 

Jack grabs Brock by the hair, pulls him off, and turns to follow his eyes -- and he can't help but bark out a laugh at what he sees. 

One laugh turns to a full on thirty seconds of laughing, holding Brock's head against his thigh. He lets the kid catch his breath and catches his own again before he talks. "You been daydreaming about what I said last time? About making you take the bat?"

And oh  _god,_ it all makes sense now. Brock's little costume is all a part of a fantasy that he's probably been working on since he stepped out the door of Jack's house. Building and building in his head until he laid eyes on that bat again.

Brock only whimpers, groaning out something that is neither refusal nor agreement, but he's clearly thinking about it, about Jack's threat. "I asked you a question, kid." Jack gets him by the hair again, pulls him until he's upright on his knees, not supporting himself on Jack's thigh. He grips Brock by the chin, wipes some of the spit from around his mouth with a calloused thumb. "C'mon, tell daddy. 

A dark blush spreads over Brock's cheeks, and he just shakes his head. It's not entirely clear if he just doesn't want to say because he's embarrassed, or doesn't want to call Jack that. Only one of those things is acceptable, and it's not the first. "Talk, kiddo, or you're out the door in less than thirty seconds." A threat of physical violence isn't worthwhile, and it'd probably rile Brock up even more. But kicking him out? Jack knows how to interrogate, how to read people, and he knows that'll make Brock talk. And boy, does it.

"Cant stop thinking about it -- what you said." He swallows, mouth visibly watering. "About the bat, about -- making me take it. I,--" And Jack doesn't think there's anything hotter than Brock right now, both embarrassed about having to voice his own depraved fantasies and still hard enough to pound nails.  

"Common," Jack urges, keeping himself from smiling too wide, from spooking him. Brock has nowhere to hide because Jack's still got him by the hair, and the kid can't even drag his eyes away from the bat. "--God, I just... _I want it._ "

Jack wasn't even sure if he'd been kidding about the bat, but he sure as hell isn't anymore. If Brock wants it, maybe even needs it, Jack has already realized that he has about zero ability to say no to the kid. 

"Yeah? That what you want?" He grabs Brock's throat, pulls him a little closer, and then leans down and kisses him, wet and sloppy. Little red marks come up on Brock's skin as Jack bites down along his jawline. "You let anyone else have you since me?" It's not a deal breaker, but Jack doesn't like the idea of anyone else ruining Brock, turning the kid into their own personal plaything. Jack doesn't much like sharing and Brock? Brock is his. He's Jack's to break.

Brock just shakes his head, and then enthusiastically shakes it some more. No one's touched him, and that makes a bit of pride swell up in Jack's chest. "Please," Brock swallows a whine and eases his hands up Jack's thighs. Sure, he's nervous, his hands are shaking, but his pupils are blown wide and his whole body is quaking and tight with need.

It means a lot of prep -- more than Jack had originally been planning on, but that doesn't mean it's too big a challenge for him. The sheer indulgence of watching Brock's ass swallow the wide end of his aluminum baseball bat is worth a hell of a lot of Jack's personal time and attention, though. And, with the way the kid whined about the sting of Jack's cock stretching him last time, it wouldn't be much of a drawback to make Brock whinge and whimper a bit more. After all, the kid's a work of art when he's falling into pieces, especially at Jack's hands.

He pulls Brock up off the ground and lowers him down onto the bed with a hint of reverence. After all, he might as well appreciate Brock while he's still at least a little aware, still trying to arrange himself all pretty for Jack. This time, he does tug off Brock's leggings all the way, tosses them to the side, and gives his ass a slap for good measure. Jack drops the bat down on the bed next to Brock, letting the cool metal fall against his warm skin. Let the kid cuddle with it for a while, get all friendly with it and used to the idea. "Cozy up. Warm that up with your hands unless you want it cold."

Brock jolts when Jack pours some lube down the cleft of his ass. Hell, Jack's never going to get used to just how sensitive and responsive the teen is -- it's a gift. One he wants to open again and again and again. Sure, he could lick Brock open again this time, but he's impatient and he already knows he's going to be spending a significant amount of time working him open. 

"What, already?" Brock starts for his hands and knees, but all it takes is Jack's palm on the small of his back to get him flush against the bed again. Helpless. "Yes, already." Jack murmurs, and spanks him again. Hard. "Settle."

One finger slides in easily, and Jack savors the low moan it pulls out of Brock. He's warm and slick and tight, and Rollins really could spend all day savoring all of the little bits and pieces of him. Two fingers is easier than it was last time, even though Brock's still tight as hell. Jack takes his time, thrusting his fingers in slow and steady, twisting them and then scissoring them when Brock's muscles begin to loosen. Brock, for his part, is getting into it, groaning and rocking back against Jack's hand, rutting against the bed in time. 

Remembering just how good Brock looked with lube dripping down his thighs last time, Jack helps himself to that visual again. He indulges. This time, he does it himself, holds Brock open with two fingers while he drizzles a generous amount of lube directly into his hole. It's obscene, watching him fill up, the liquid eventually spilling over and dripping down his ass. It's hard not to imagine it as load after load of spunk, the kid used enough that it dribbles right out of him. Brock shudders and groans at the feeling, and Jack curses under his breath. "God," he gives up and palms himself, once, twice, before giving in. 

He doesn't have this kind of restraint. Not with this particular piece of meat right before him.

Brock's too into it to do much other than whine when Jack pulls his fingers out. He does, however, stiffen a little when Jack stretches out over him, one hand supporting himself next to Brock's head. "Wha--?" It's all Brock gets out before Jack's pushing into him, using one hand to guide his cock into Brock's lubed-up hole.

He's tight, so tight that Jack groans with it, slowing his onslaught a little when Brock hisses through his teeth and makes a noise low in his throat. Jack doesn't need to be told that it stings -- Brock's practically still a virgin, even with how much he wants it. Even with the paces Jack put him through last time, it's easy to tell how fresh the teen's ass is, and it's sinful just how good it is. But Jack's not cruel, if only because he has plans for later. He's not particularly nice either, because he doesn't stop -- he just slows down a bit. "C'mon, kid, you can take it." He runs a hand down Brock's sweaty flank and coos, rocking his hips slowly, easing himself in bit by bit.

To his credit, Brock's handling it like a champ. It hurts -- Jack can tell that much by Brock's fingers gripping hard at the sheets, but with each and every thrust, Brock's whines sound more and more like they're ending in moans and gasps. "You're good, so good." Jack gives him as praise, pushing himself in the rest of the way until has no other option than to grind Brock down into the bed. Brock groans with it, gasping when Jack's flush against him, and rocks his hips down against the bed. 

"You said, -- but, you said --?" Brock manages, barely catching his breath before his words come out all wet and hoarse. And god, is the kid actually complaining while Jack's cock is buried in his ass?

Jack snaps his hips and fucks into Brock with no more pretense of gentleness. "You," he hisses, before biting down on Brock's neck, "Are such a fucking brat." He can't stop himself from smiling, though, because Jack loves it.

Brock manages a whiny " _But,"_  before Jack fucks the words right out of him. He pulls the kid up by his hips and gets him on his knees: the angle's better for taking him harder, faster, rougher -- and this way, Brock can't grind himself off against Jack's sheets and make a mess. That'd cut their night a little short, and Rollins can't have that.

"You're going to take what I give you, kid. And you're going to say  _thank you_  when I'm done." And he's going to mean it, too, because Jack's going to give him everything he needs. 

He makes it good, because he knows how to. He rocks his hips just so, jerks Brock at just the right times, and makes sure that he's hitting the sweet spot with every thrust. He's got the kid groaning and panting and sweating, his cock leaking pre-come down onto the sheets. But Jack won't let Brock come apart, not just yet. "If you come, kid, we're done playing." 

That doesn't mean Jack can't come, though. 

The idea of coming in Brock's ass and then pushing the mess back into him with the baseball bat? Too hot and disgusting to resist.  

It's not hard to focus on getting himself off, now that he has an eye on the prize. Brock's peppering the air with little porno-quality moans that Jack would swear up and down were fake if Brock had any means of self-control, but he doesn't. He's the real deal, bouncing himself on Jack's dick like he's getting paid and enjoying every second of it. Jack's fingertips dig bruises into Brock's hips as he pumps into him, hips jerking hard and fast until he comes, buried in hot warmth.

He doesn't pull out for a second, just lets his hips jerk with the last of his release, cock so deep in Brock's ass he's seeing stars. There's something obscene about knowing he's keeping his spunk all up in Brock, not letting him lose it. The kid is shuddering beneath him, breathing hard and whimpering. He might be close, Jack has no idea, but he best save it if he wants what he came here for. 

With a tug, he pulls Brock to his knees and catches him in a long kiss, lithe body pressed against Jack's torso, before pulling out. He moves carefully, though -- not wanting to lose any of his release onto the sheets. "Good boy," he strokes a palm down the kid's back, down the notches of his spine, "You're so fucking good."

Brock shudders again at the praise, and Jack gives in, pushing three fingers into Brock's hole. They slide in easily, way paved with lube and spunk. He can feel it at the tip of his fingers and it's slick and warm. He wants to break this kid, shatter him into a million pieces in Jack's hands. He wants to watch Brock fall apart, wants him to whimper and cry when he comes. Jack works three fingers for a while, until Brock is loose and warm around him, until Brock is nearly boneless and just a bundle of content moans.

He's putty in Jack's hands. The teen doesn't even make the complaint that Jack expects when Jack works in four fingers and loosens him up even more. He works Brock over like that for a while, losing himself in the feeling, in the sound of Brock dropping farther into throes of pleasure. Four fingers turn to Jack sliding the thumb of his other hand around the tightness of Brock's hole around his fingers. It's warm and tight and puckered against him. The plan is doable, though. He can see it now, with the easy way Brock is taking it. "You're so good, taking it so well." It's a little easier to focus now that Jack's not focused on getting himself off. This way, too, he can memorize the way Brock looks when he's totally losing himself.

He splays Brock's hole again to pour some more lube in. It's mixing with Jack's come, coating his fingers with something obscene and disgusting. For a second, because he can't not, he leans over, stomach flush with Brock's back, and sticks his thumb in Brock's mouth. He hooks it into Brock's mouth for the kid to suck at again. The coordination has bled out of him, and he's just lapping at Jack's thumb loosely, wantonly. Like a dog. It's hot, and Jack felt like he had to give Brock a taste of himself, but he eventually straightens out again -- he's got a job to do.

His thumb slides in slickly along with his other fingers, and it's impressive, just how easily Brock's hole takes his whole hand. Sure, it's taken a while and a lot of patience, but it's just as stunning even with all the work. Brock's not a huge guy -- calling him a twink wouldn't be entirely unfair, so watching him take Jack's whole fist is a bit of a delight. It's definitely the treat that Brock promised.

By the time Jack decides he's done, Brock can barely hold himself up, so loose and pliant and  _gone_  that it's endearing. But it also won't do. So, Jack slaps him across the ass, hard. And then again on the face. "Stay with me. I don't want you missing this, champ."

The bat's cold when Jack grabs it, and he doesn't make any effort to warm it up with his hands. Brock startles when Jack presses the end against Brock's ass, watches his red hole flutter against the bat, ready. Jack holds it there, drizzles lube over the end of the bat and against Brock's hole, getting everything nice and slick. It's a waste, but not really, because it means he gets to watch it drip down Brock's legs.

"Steady," He murmurs, and gets a good grip on the bat. Slowly, he starts pushing it against Brock's opening. "Gonna fill you up, kid. So full. Gonna make you take it." Brock stays calm for about two seconds before he whines and moves forward, away from the bat, making half-formed excuses, complaints.

Jack grabs him by the hip, pulls him forward and closer to the bat. "You asked for this, kiddo. You aren't going anywhere." Jack's going to make him take it, and he's going to like it. So he starts again, just pushes the aluminum bat against Brock's hole, unrelenting, until Brock's body finally begins to give.

He doesn't ease up on the pressure, but he does coo at Brock, offers little platitudes and praise to the whimpers and whines that are falling out of Brock's mouth. He's shaking under Jack's hand, his body convinced that he can't take it, even though Jack knows that he can. He'll make him; he'll be there every step of the way. 

The ring of muscle eases around the base of the bat, finally giving way and staying stretched in an unnatural way. It's one of the sexiest things that Jack has ever seen. Brock's hole is red and angry looking around the bat, but it doesn't stop Jack from pushing it in farther. "You're there, kid. Fuck, look at you. Doin' so good." It's in, and Brock's panting and whimpering beneath him, but it's in. 

"I --," The kid snuffles, and when Jack looks, there are tears dripping down his face -- the kid's a goddamn work of art. "Oh god, it -- hurts. It's so, so -- tight." And Jack knows he's feeling the unyielding pressure of the bat. It doesn't bend or give and it's Brock's body that has to get used to it, no other way around it. So, Jack helps out by pouring on more lube and pushing the bat in farther. He moves it a bit, back and forth, stretching Brock from side to side while the kid whinges and gasps against Jack's sheets.

Eventually, Brock's body gets used to it enough that Jack can work the bat in and out of him with relative ease. The more he does it, the more Brock's pained noises shift closer and closer to pleasure, the more he begins scrambling at the sheets with his fingers. After enough time, Jack holds the bat still and watches Brock push himself back against it, rocking on it, without even being told. "Fuck, you're good, baby." His ass is filled, there are tear-tracks running down his cheeks, and Jack can see spunk and lube dripping down Brock's legs. Jack's going to hell, definitely, but he's never getting a better gift than this one right here.

He slides the bat out entirely, watches Brock's red and abused hole as it twitches and sputters at the absence. Brock whines, low in his throat, and starts up a mantra of  _please, please, please_ , until Jack fills him again. It's hot, so hot, and if Jack were a younger man, he might want to go again just at the sight of Brock's body opening up so easily for a goddamn baseball bat. As it is, he'll probably jack off in the shower, thinking about it, before going to sleep.

Brock rocks himself easily now, because he's clearly the slut that Jack pegged him for in the beginning. It was a little work to get to this point, but now that Brock's loose and open and wet, his body his practically begging to be filled. Hell, he complains each and every time that Jack slides the bat out of him with a slick pop. And, to no one's surprise, he makes the most beautiful of noises when Jack works it back into him again. And again and again and again, until Brock is a writhing mess once more.

"Common, kid." He works the bat a little harder, angling it just so, so that Brock falls apart each and every time the bat pushes into him and rocks against that bundle of nerves inside him. "I want you to come on this fucking bat, like the little slut you are. Fuckin' dirty as hell." 

Brock whines, complaining -- doesn't think he can do it, obviously. He hasn't said much of a real word in a little while now, and it's not too far a stretch to think it impossible at this point. 

He rocks the bat again, working it in and out of the kid in a steady motion, pressing in deep, deeper than before. Brock groans, his hips bucking against absolutely nothing, and Jack repeats the motion, keeps going until he watches all of Brock's muscles tighten. He does it once more, harder and deeper, and watches the teen fall apart before him. It's a goddamn sight, that's for sure: Brock gasps and moans, sounding surprised with the orgasm that just ripped out of him. His hole clenches and unclenches against the bat, and Jack watches it with fascination while he reaches down with a free hand to wring the last little bit of come from Brock's cock while he's still filled to the brim.

The kid practically screams, and his situation isn't really helped with the fact that Jack doesn't ease up for a little while, steadily rocking the bat and gently jerking Brock's cock. He keeps going until Brock is the wreck Jack promised himself, until he's loose and boneless and practically crying against the sheets. 

"Good boy. Jesus, you're good." Eventually, Jack lets him go, eases him down onto the bed and slides the bat out of him. It's sick, just how much of it Brock could take, how much he  _wanted_  to take. The kid doesn't make a peep when Jack drops the bat on the floor, just lays there, panting and breathing against Jack's sheets. He's dripping in sweat and his hole is stretched wide and red. It doesn't take too much thought or effort to wipe the kid down with a washcloth, getting up most of mess from the cum and the lube.

Jack gives Brock a few minutes to recover, but when he brushes a hand down his spine and murmurs an, "Up and at'em," he doesn't even budge. A soft, snuffled breath tells Jack that the kid's already sound asleep, body trying to sleep off the onslaught and abuse it took.

It'd be endearing as hell if Jack didn't also want to sleep in his own bed.

"Such a goddamn brat." Jack bundles him up in the comforter, swaddling it around him, before hoisting the teen up in his arms. It's a few short strides back down his stairs to deposit Brock on the couch, but it's worth it when he hears the kid murmur a quiet  _"Thanks,"_ and turn over on his side with a whimper and a groan.

_Trick or fucking treat_ , Jack laughs to himself, grabbing a beer to down in a few thirsty gulps, and makes his way up to his own bedroom. He eyes the bat on his way to the shower and laughs again. Definitely a treat.

**Author's Note:**

> you can find me on [tumblr](http://brawlite.tumblr.com).


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